


These Hands Are Meant To Hold

by ardj18



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, angst with barely any plot, ridiculously self-indulgent angst, set during 3x13 but with quentin and the monster from just after 4x06, the other questers are there but mostly in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardj18/pseuds/ardj18
Summary: Before Eliot can properly freak out, there’s a second flash of light and Quentin is standing there in the middle of the room again, stumbling a bit and looking dazed.Except it’s not quite Quentin. Not the same Quentin at least. There’s something different about him—his hair is shorter, and he’s wearing different clothes, and his shoulders are somehow even more slumped, and that’s all Eliot has time to take in before Quentin catches sight of him and, with a strangled “Eliot,” launches himself at him.In the middle of an argument about how to restore magic, the questers receive some very unexpected visitors.





	These Hands Are Meant To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been stuck in my head since I first saw 4x06 and I finally got it written (while taking a break from the massive season 1 au/rewrite I'm working on). It is, as the tags suggest, completely and utterly self-indulgent angst with the barest semblance of plot, but I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Title from Move Along by The All-American Rejects.

The questers are all gathered in the Cottage living room, trying to plan their next steps. They’ve found all seven keys, but now they need to figure out how to use them, and the book is as unhelpful and cryptic as always.

They’re mid-argument—Quentin pacing and gesturing as he tries to explain what he thinks the chapter means—when suddenly there’s a flash of light and Quentin is just—gone. Except he’s not, because before Eliot can properly freak out, there’s a second flash of light and Quentin is standing there in the middle of the room again, stumbling a bit and looking dazed.

Except it’s not quite Quentin. Not the _same_ Quentin at least. There’s something different about him—his hair is shorter, and he’s wearing different clothes, and his shoulders are somehow even more slumped, and that’s all Eliot has time to take in before Quentin catches sight of him and, with a strangled “Eliot,” launches himself at him. 

Eliot hugs back tightly, reflexively, because whatever’s going on here, Eliot could never just _not_ comfort Q when he’s like this. (And honestly, would never pass up any opportunity to hug Quentin in general.) Quentin’s hugging him like he’ll disappear if he lets go, and something is so terribly wrong.

“What the fuck?” he hears Margo demand, but Eliot is too focused on Quentin to really pay attention. Quentin, who doesn’t answer her, just burrows closer to Eliot as if any tiny speck of distance is too much. There’s a hitch to his breathing and it doesn’t take a genius to connect it to the tiny pinpricks of moisture seeping into Eliot’s shirt.

“No, seriously,” Margo continues, sounding closer. “What the fuck just happened?”

There are murmurs of agreement from the others, but Eliot can’t tell who’s making them.

Quentin finally pulls back a little and says, valiantly ignoring the fact he’s kind of crying, “I think there’s time travel involved, but honestly? I have no fucking clue.”

Time travel. Okay, why not? Honestly not the weirdest thing to happen this week.

“Well where’s our Quentin, then?” Julia asks. _Right here,_ Eliot wants to say, because every version of Quentin is _his_ Quentin, even if he’s not really _his_.

He doesn’t say it though, because he knows what she’s asking, and he’s pretty concerned about that too. It doesn’t mean he’s any less concerned for _this_ Quentin, he just wants to know they’re both okay.

All signs, however, seem to be pointing to _definitely not okay._

Quentin takes a deep, shuddering breath, and steps away from Eliot. Eliot’s body sways forward, not ready to let go. But he does—let go, that is. And gets his first good look at this future Quentin—because he must be from the future, Eliot knows the past versions too well to think otherwise—and _oh god_ he’s a fucking mess.

His clothes are rumpled like he’s been in them for several days, and he’s thinner than Eliot’s ever seen him, and definitely not in a way that looks healthy. The dark circles under his eyes might as well be black holes, and— 

“Holy shit! What the hell happened to you?” Eliot demands, stepping forward. Because there are bruises around Quentin’s neck, bruises shaped like _handprints_ , like someone tried to _strangle him_ , and Eliot fucking sees red. He lifts one hand to hover over the bruises, all his instincts screaming to _make sure Quentin’s okay_ , but—

Quentin flinches.

Oh.

Because Quentin’s never rejected his touch like that before, but Eliot understands, because, because—

_Oh._

_Oh, Q._

Eliot takes a step back. Then another. Because he’d seen, hand hovering over one of the bruises, in that spot on Quentin’s neck he loved to hold when they kissed and—

The bruise is in the exact shape of his hand. _His_ hand. And Quentin had _flinched_. 

“No, wait, Eliot, it’s not what you think!” Quentin says, suddenly looking panicked and, and fucking _broken_ and what the fuck kind of monster has Eliot become in the future? 

_Nothing you weren’t already,_ his mind whispers to him, flashes of memories—Logan, Taylor, Mike—he desperately shoves back to the dark corners of his psyche.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, stepping forward, hand outstretched, like he’s trying to comfort _Eliot_ , like Q’s not the one with strangulation marks etched with Eliot’s fingerprints. “It wasn’t you.”

Eliot laughs harshly, and it sounds kind of like a broken sob. “So what, I was on another drug spiral or something?” It sounds like something he would do. Hell, it’s something he’s already done. He’d almost gotten all his friends killed last time and doesn’t even remember much of it. “Don’t make excuses for me.”

“No, Eliot, it literally wasn’t you.”

“Okay, can someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Penny cuts in, and Eliot had kind of forgotten that the others were there. 

“Seconded,” Kady adds. Julia is glancing between Eliot and Q with confusion edging quickly towards horror. Alice looks disapproving and upset, but that’s also been her default expression lately, so Eliot can’t really tell what she’s thinking.

Quentin gives Eliot one last pleading look before reluctantly turning to the others. “Like I said, I’m not really sure. But, I mean, this is definitely the past. For me, I mean. I remember this, or, well, if this is the time I think it is then I remember it, and it’s after the Beast was killed so it’s not one of those other thirty-nine timelines, but I’m definitely from your guys’s future. Probably by like a year. And, well,” he glances back at Eliot, who is still standing stiffly to the side, eyes magnetically drawn to the handprints on Q’s neck however much he tries to look away, “there’s a lot of shit we’re dealing with right now.”

Shit that apparently involves Eliot trying to kill Quentin. 

He thinks his fingers might break from how tightly he’s clenching them into fists. But he would gladly break his own fingers before he lets them get anywhere close enough to hurt Q like that.

Julia takes a deep breath. “Okay, that’s a lot to take in, but we’ve dealt with weirder, so let’s figure this out. Do you have any idea how you got here?”

“Um, maybe?” Quentin fidgets under everyone’s stares. Eliot wants to soothe him, wants to hug him, wants to stay far, far away from him. “I was researching, and it was some really old stuff that I didn’t understand, and I was kind of tired, and well, I might have read one of the spells out loud? Like I can’t really remember, but I think that might be what happened?” He trails off.

In any other circumstance, Eliot would make some fond remark about how that does sound like something Quentin would do, but, well, these aren’t normal circumstances. His mouth feels welded shut and he thinks if he were to pry it open he might start screaming and never stop.

Quentin keeps glancing back at Eliot, even as he explains, and his eyes are pleading for Eliot to understand something, but what is there to understand other than _Eliot’s hands_ put those bruises there?

(Eliot’s hands—the hands that killed Mike, that hit Taylor. Hands that escape the guilt of Logan’s murder simply because it was Eliot’s fucking _mind_ instead. Hands that had held Quentin through grief and joy, sickness and health. Hands that had held Quentin’s neck as they kissed, held him like Quentin was the most precious thing in this world because to Eliot he _is_. Those hands. Those hands that line up all too perfectly with deep, angry bruises ringing that throat he used to kiss.)

He tries closing his eyes, but his mind just pulls up the image of Quentin _flinching_ on a loop. Which isn’t better.

Someone is talking but it’s not Quentin so Eliot isn’t sure who it is or what they’re saying. Quentin, however, twists his head to look at whoever it is, stretching the bruises on his neck taut in the process. 

Eliot thinks he might throw up.

But before his body can make good on its nausea, another person appears in the center of the room. There isn’t a flash like when Quentin appeared; he’s just suddenly standing there. Someone inhales sharply, loud as a gunshot in the sudden silence, and it wasn’t Eliot but he understands the sentiment, because the person standing there is—it’s . . . Eliot. Except it’s not, because something is clearly, deeply wrong.

Eliot’s hair is long and unkempt, his jaw is covered in stubble, and he’s wearing a blood-stained graphic t-shirt that makes Eliot—the real, current Eliot—shudder with horror. 

“Quentin!” the not-Eliot says with a child-like glee. “I found you!”

Everything about Quentin shifts in that moment. He visibly retreats into himself—face going blank, shoulders slouching, eyes hovering anywhere but on not-Eliot.

_Oh._

Eliot thought his stomach couldn’t sink any further but somehow it does and takes his heart with it.

The . . . thing closes the distance between itself and Quentin, one hand patting his hair and one hand settling on his shoulder, dangerously close to the bruises ringing his neck.

 _Oh god._ Eliot really might be sick. 

“You’re getting better at hiding,” not-Eliot says, and the real Eliot’s head spins with the unpleasant implications of _that,_ “but I found you anyway.”

“Yeah,” Quentin’s voice cracks. Eliot feels an echoing crack in his own chest. “You did.”

The not-Eliot frowns suddenly, the hand patting Quentin’s hair sliding down to grip his arm tightly. “I’m bored of the hiding game. You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I was,” Quentin says quickly, “I mean, I am.”

Not-Eliot’s fingers brush against the bruises on Quentin’s neck.

 _It wasn’t you_ , Quentin had said. And it wasn’t. Eliot wants to feel relieved about that but he can’t. Because it was still his hands. Because this is somehow _so much worse._

That _thing_ hurt Quentin with Eliot’s body. It’s _touching_ Quentin with Eliot’s hands. Absentmindedly. Familiarly, as if it has the _fucking right_.

Eliot has no idea what’s going on but it’s so _wrong_ he wants to scream. As it is, he can’t stop the choked off noise that escapes him.

The noise attracts the attention of not-Eliot, who turns to real-Eliot with curiosity that quickly turns to contempt. (It’s still clutching Quentin’s arm possessively and Eliot wants desperately to pull Q away, preferably into his own arms.)

“Eliot,” it snarls, stepping forwards.

Eliot is self-aware enough to know it’s not a good sign that the first time he thinks this creature truly looks like him is when he sees his own face staring back at him, filled with loathing.

Not-Eliot raises a hand threateningly and Eliot isn’t clear on what exactly it is inhabiting his body, but he has no doubt it can do magic despite their own currently magic-less circumstances.

The suspicion is really only confirmed when Quentin practically lunges forward, throwing himself between Eliot and not-Eliot. “Stop!” he commands, all traces of his former meekness gone. “You promised not to hurt Eliot, and that counts for this Eliot too.”

“Q,” Eliot pleads, because whatever deal Quentin’s struck with this thing can’t be worth it. But Quentin doesn’t even acknowledge him and Eliot has to watch as not-Eliot takes a menacing step towards Quentin, glaring.

Quentin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all. Just stands there and stares down not-Eliot unblinkingly. Eliot holds his breath, bursting with the need to drag Q as far from not-Eliot as possible but knowing that’s probably a really terrible idea. The second it tries to hurt Q, though, all bets are off.

There’s a tense pause, and Eliot thinks in the back of his head that everyone else in the room seems to be holding their breath as well. 

“Fine,” not-Eliot spits out, sounding more like a petulant child than anything. But before anyone in the room can relax (or not, because Eliot thinks he may never truly relax again), the thing reaches out, grabs Quentin’s shoulder, and—disappears. 

It’s like the disappearance—as silent and sudden as when not-Eliot appeared—breaks some sort of spell over the room. Julia and Margo both rush forward to where Quentin had just been, Margo cursing up a very creative storm. Everyone starts speaking at once, trying to figure out _what the fuck_ just happened.

But Eliot doesn’t move. Can’t move. He still feels frozen, unable to even let out the breath he’s holding. 

_Where did they go? Is Quentin okay?_ Stupid question—of course he’s not okay. Not when he’s with that—that thing. 

_Bruises ringing Quentin’s throat. Eliot’s fingers brushing against them. Eliot’s face, snarling at Quentin. Eliot’s hands, wrapped around Quentin’s throat, cutting off his breath._

Eliot’s lungs burn but he can’t seem to draw in air.

 _Where is Quentin?_ The current Quentin, that is. 

What if not-Eliot taking future!Quentin back had messed up the spell and now Quentin is stuck somewhere in the limbo of an unfinished spell?

As if in answer to Eliot’s panicked thoughts, a light flashes in the middle of the room and when it fades, Quentin (current Quentin) is standing there, mid-sentence, his arms gesturing wildly, exactly as he’d been when he disappeared.

Eliot can breathe again. Not well or anything, but just enough he’s no longer about to pass out.

_God, keep it together, Waugh._

Julia beats everyone to Quentin, hugging him tightly and looking like she’s never planning on letting go. Quentin humors her bemusedly.

“Um, what’s going on, Jules?”

Eliot ignores whatever explanation Julia gives, because all he can think of is his handprints around Quentin’s throat. The currently unblemished state of Quentin’s neck isn’t really doing a whole lot to dispel the mental image.

He meets Margo’s eyes and she nods sharply. Right.

Eliot straightens his shoulders and pushes everything to the back of his mind to fester alongside his previous fuck-ups. They’re going to stop it. They’re going to fix whatever the fuck was wrong with the future before it has a chance to come. 

Whatever the fuck that was in his body, he’s never going to give it a chance to hurt Quentin. He will hunt it to the end of the world and destroy it if he has to.

But first—magic. His gaze falls on the keys gathered on the table and he lets the image burn away all other thought.

They have a quest to complete, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me extremely happy :)
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr at teatraysandtypewriters!


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